


~ Cooking ~

by Tortue_Souris



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:17:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5416718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tortue_Souris/pseuds/Tortue_Souris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John is ill and Mrs Hudson sulks, Sherlock has to cook. One-Shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	~ Cooking ~

Hello :)

This fiction is inspired from this prompt : Imagine person A of your OTP getting sick. Person B, who has no concept of cooking, spends all day trying to make homemade “get well” recipes for person A. Outcome is up to you.

I wrote it in french and then I translated it, so please excuse my english ;)

Enjoy!

oOoOoOo

One more sneeze was heard in the flat as Sherlock closed behind him the front door of 221B Baker Street. Quickly climbing the stairs, he stood in the living room, staring at John with an inscrutable look. « Tissues ? »  
The blond shook his head, raising the box of tissues already half empty. He had spent the day rolled up in a ball on the sofa, shivering with a fever despite his two jumpers, between an agitated, light sleep and a foul mood accompanied by an endless grumble. The coffee table was covered with antibiotic and rumpled tissues, Mrs Hudson having run away from his complaints. Offended, she had taken Sherlock further away and prayed him to feed John, claiming that he was too unbearable when hungry and that he really had to eat to get better. She pretended to have too much work to cook something herself. 

The consulting detective had then found himself completely disconcerted. He had searched in every corner of his mind palace unsuccessfully : the only informations he had ever considered useful enough to keep about “cooking” was the ideal associations to reinforced a poison's effectiveness. Obviously he could have simply ordered some chinese food, John loved asian specialities, but he knew perfectly that the doctor would refuse any food. To cook something himself was the only way to make him eat : he had never done that before so John wouldn't reject it.

However, he had no knowledge whatsoever about cooking. He was not even sure what the difference was between a saucepan and a frying pan and wondered if a fish slice really was a slice of fish.

At first, he decided to watch videos on youtube, thinking it would be a good idea to base himself on a visual. But he wasn't able to bear more than fifteen minutes (which wasn't that bad, he reckoned) of glittering cupcakes and boring or shrill voices.

Then he borrowed Mrs Hudson's cookbooks. But the old books seemed like spell manuscripts to his inexperienced eyes.

Eventually, he typed “easy recipes when ill” on the web and selected the ones that appeared to be the easiest and the most likely to please John. He chose two recipes, sure that he would definitely fail somehthing so he could count on the rest : a green pea soup (or “velouté” as they called it) and a bowl of fried rice. 

After he had explored the fridge and discovered he was containing other things than pieces of human flesh or organs, he set off to do what he imagined he would never have to do, even in his worst nightmares : shopping. All these idiots around him, pushing themselves in the too narrow sections, the fake courtesy of the checkout assistants... And he did not understand the point of this enormous range of products! Tired to shuffle along the shelves, indecisive, unable to choose between rice in bags or not, long rice, round rice, basmati... he finally caught the first box in front of him, did the same for every other ingredients and hurriedly came home.

That's how he entered the living room, carrying plastic bags and staring at John and his box of tissues with a glimpse of concern in his eyes. He got closer to him and tried to lay a soft kiss on his forhead, but John weakly pushed him back, muttering about bugs and contagion.

Sherlock put the bags on the counter and rolled up his sleeves. He gathered the ingredients and the recipes and, not kowing where to start, glanced at the kitchen as if it were a monster he had to fight. Indeed, the game promised to be streneous.

Taking a deep breath, he caught the rice bag, having decided to start with the hardest part. He very carefully read the instructions on the pack, saught a while for a saucepan before opening the right drawer and finding himself in front of five saucepans of different sizes. Very well. He opted for the medium one, filled it with water, put it on the hot plate, remembered to put some salt and poured the white seeds in. Self-satisfied, a smile appeared on his lips. Cooking wasn't that hard.

Now he had to make the omelette. He found a bowl quite quickly, grasped an egg and... literally smashed it against the edge of the container. He gave up on trying to take the shells off, took another bowl, another egg and tapped it very softly this time, again and again. The shell eventually cracked and his clumsy fingers opened it. When all the eggs were broken, Sherlock's hands were viscous and bits of shells lied here and there. Quite proud of himself anyway, he grabbed a fork and energetically stirred the mixture before pouring it all in a frying pan.

The recipe didn't explain how to cook an omelette, so Sherlock just assumed he only had to wait until it would look like what John or Mrs Hudson usually served him. Paying close attention to the color of the mixture, he suddenly frowned when he heard a strange noise. He turned his head to look at the rice and let a curse slip. The boiling water was covered with thick foam that overflowed abundantly on the hot plate. Forgetting his omelette, he grabed the handle and, looking around him, not knowing what to do, ran to the sink where he began to pour the water - “Shit!” he yelled, straightening up the pan, half of the rice spoiled.

“Sherlock ? Is everything all right ? asked John in an anxious voice from the living room.  
\- Yes, don't worry !” answered Sherlock, hardly convinced. He sighed and sieved what was left of the rice. When a strong smell of burning tickled his nostrils, he closed his eyes “Oh no” he thought before daring to look at the frying pan. His omelette was carbonized. “Oh no, no, no, I can't believe it...” he whispered, tremendoulsy scrubing the bottom, attempting to remove the dark repugnant mixture which ended up before long in the bin.

Frankly discouraged but forbiding himself to admit defeat, Sherlock turned to the green peas. This time, the cooking went all fine, however, as he had never used a blender before, he forgot to put on the lid. In consequence, the half-ground peas were projected all across the kitchen. “Shit, shit, shit !!” swore Sherlock, interrupted by a little laugh. He turned his head : John, seated on his armchair, observed him with an amused look. Sherlock bit his bottom lip, assessing the damage of his work. The kitchen looked like a battlefield, the omelette was burnt, the peas all over the place, what was left of the rice had turned cold... Swallowing his pride, he retreated, taking with him one of the plastic bag.

He came to sit on the arm of the armchair and piteously handed to John a choco-mint slab. “I knew it would end this way anyway...” he whispered. John warmly smiled to him, gently opened the slab of his favourite chocolate taste and, biting a bit, answered “Oh that is fine for me actually... At least I am fairly sure you need me too much to leave me...”. Sherlock smiled back and passed an arm around his companion's shoulders.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it or if you didn't, leave a comment :)


End file.
